


Dance My Esmeralda

by The_Peridot_Writer



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29558127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Peridot_Writer/pseuds/The_Peridot_Writer
Summary: C’est la mort ou l’amour. C’est la tombe ou mon lit. C’est la mort ou la vie. You just have to say “yes”.
Relationships: Esméralda | Esmeralda/Claude Frollo
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Dance My Esmeralda

**Dance My Esmeralda**

**Chapter One**

**Summary: C’est la mort ou l’amour. C’est la tombe ou mon lit. C’est la mort ou la vie. You just have to say “yes”.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Notre-Dame de Paris. This is simply for entertainment purposes. All rights belong to Victor Hugo, Riccardo Cocciante and Luc Plomondon.**

And so she stares, attempting to process what he just offered her, his words reiterating, as though her mind playing tricks on her, as though he is not there and she is merely having a nightmare. Yes. That must be it. A nightmare to which she has the incapability to awaken and she is trapped. Trapped like a cornered, abused, starving dog being shoved to the side for merely begging for some form of sympathy from the passerbys. If that is so, then surely she is to wake soon. Home, in the Court of Miracles, with Clopin watching over her, ensuring that no one dare get close to his beloved little sister.

But he does not fade, and although he seems unearthly, perhaps in a sick form, ethereal, he does not leave, evaporate into nothingness, as though mocking her, laughing at her own lack of reality, of what remains true and what is fallacious. She holds no anchor to substantiality. She is frightened.

“If I get you out of here, I promise I shall take you back. To your brothers, the gypsies. To your brothers of Satan.”

The look of fire protrudes her, stripping each and every form of protection that she has and although he has yet to lay a single finger on her, she has been left unclad, vulnerable, stark-naked. She is clueless upon what she shall do and she knows that her life is at stake. And so is her identity. What he says, she cannot postulate, and each turn that she might go to leads to her downfall, on way or another. Yet, what is the most honourable?

To go with him, she will betray her people. The queen, subcoming to fear of death, however wrong, gives no hope to those of her kinds. But they have already been damned the moment they crossed France’s borders and demanded asylum. They have been damned before they were even conceived. Their ancestors’ ancestors have damned them to lives that the lowest suffer. And Esmeralda, queen of the gypsies, realizes that her life is truly worthless, and her body is her only purpose, the only thing to give back to the world. The world that has been so cruel, vindictive, malicious, rancorous. If she accepts, perhaps she can persuade him. Perhaps she can do something, _anything,_ to secure the inviolability of her people’s lives.

“What happens?” she questions, her voice barely audible. “What happens if I go with you?”

“Your soul shall be redeemed, and you shall follow the light of God, and you will live a pious and virtuous life.”

“My people. What of them?”

“They will be left alone.”

“Will they continue to be persecuted?” She takes a step forward, her dark eyes staring into his and this time, she is the one peeling away the defenses. She is the one in control. She knows what it is that he wants and she recognizes the fact that to a certain extent, she does indeed, have him wrapped around her finger.

“That, I cannot assure you,” the priest speaks solemnly. “I do not have control over the people of Paris.”

“You hold authority over the king’s men. They follow your command for church holds as much power as state does.” She walks over, placing her hands upon his shoulders, searching his near black gaze for any form of commiseration, any gap that she can squeeze through, any languor, anything. He falters when she touches him and notices. She recognizes it almost immediately. The absolute contrast is so unlike him that one is to be blind in order to be incapable of noticing such a change.

The priest temporarily closes his eyes, attempting to ease his nerves, subside the thoughts plaguing him. “What is it that you wish I do?”

“Allow my people to roam freely, without fear of being wrongly accused, arrested, or any form of that. If you can affirm such a thing… I shall be yours. Without any need to return me back home.”

He remains silent, relishing at the gentle feeling of her hands and he wishes nothing more than to remain with that feeling for as long as humanly possible. He becomes disheartened as she eventually pulls away. “I cannot promise this for certain,” he concludes.

“You must!” she begs in return, her plea desperate. He notices her hands begin to tremble. “You must! They have suffered for so long, suffered unfairly, some since birth! Prove to me that you are the kind soul that many see you as, that Quasimodo perceives you as!”

He stumbles, the name taking him by surprise and he is unsure how to respond. He knows well how faithful the bellringer is, akin to a lost pup. Yet he knows little of how to react. Surely the two do not have a connection more than friendship, and even then, there must be a part of the child repulsed. He does not attempt to hide his own disgust, even in front of the lad. But Quasimodo only knows Frollo. To go against him would be blasphemy all on its own. “You… talk to him?” he ultimately asks.

“He is a good friend of me,” she affirms, watching him, seeing his indisposition and she feels an unsteady knot twisting inside. “… are you unhappy with the thought? He looks up to you, admires you. He love you with all he has and more. He speaks so kindly of you that I know he will not hesitate to risk his life to save yours. This proves that you have a form of kindness within you, does it not?”

The priest is incapable of responding, his throat constricting as he ponders the words spoken. This child, barely that of sixteen, holds more of a kind heart than a select few within the cathedral. “Why do you bring him up?” he steps closer, a shroud causing his eyes to become unreadable. “Are you to use him to guilt me?” he inquires calmly, however his voice holding an accusative tone.

Esmeralda stills, refusing to gaze at him any longer as her mind goes over the various scenarios of what is about to occur. Her mouth goes dry and the pit grows exponentially to the point of feeling ill. She is used to danger and would occasionally seek it out for the thrill. She is familiar with that type of danger. This is something new entirely. She is out of her league and she knows now that she plays with the hottest of fires and one wrong move shall kill her and those she loves. 

“You fear upsetting me,” he observes, a hand resting upon her cheek, his thumb ever so slightly caressing it to where neither are entirely sure if it is occurring. To both, it feels far too surreal to ever be reality. But wanting to stay is a different story for them both. “Why are you so certain about what I feel?”

“How are you?”

He returns with a slight smile. “You cannot answer a question with a question.”

She says nothing, growing more unnerved upon each passing second. She knows not how to acknowledge him, the stare foreign to her. It is scolding, that she has received from Clopin. Loving, how she saw with Phoebus. Gentle, as that Quasimodo is to her. But lustful, kindred to the looks she receives from the drunken men down by the brothel. There is enormous consideration in absolutely every move, even every breath, and she feels as though she is standing upon an edge, looking into nothing but fire and brimstone and part of her knows that the moment Claude Frollo laid eyes upon her, her soul was damned, to which she had no means of retrieving it. She is not in control and all she can do is stand back and watch everything unfold, for she knows that she lacks all control and a part of her questions if she even had it to begin with. Or did her parents damn her upon their deaths? Damn her to a life of incapability of hope, rescue, independence, freedom. Her wings, he now clips them and as he plucks the feathers, her hope diminishes and all she is left with is a voice telling her it is for the good of her people. It is the only spark, carefully keeping the smallest of flames lit, enough to fuel the motivation. It is little, but it is enough for the time being.

“Well, I suppose since you have nothing more to say that we best be going. Come, I shall prepare a fire in your quarters where you shall reside. Claim sanctuary and not a single soul shall harm you.”

“How so?”

“You will be under the protection of the church. As you said, the church has great power. That is why your people demand asylum within the walls of Notre-Dame herself. Perhaps we are more powerful. We serve in the name of God, after all. And a king, no matter how holy, is not God.”

_How insightful,_ Esmeralda thinks bitterly, following him in silence. Her bare feet create the only noise, but despite how bitterly cold the stone floor is, it does not phase her. She had spent nights before with only the very clothes on her back to provide warmth, where she has woken up covered almost entirely with snow, stitching old wrappings of cloth to attempt to prevent frostbite. This, this is nothing to her.

“You are being awfully quiet,” Frollo notes to which she does not reply, rather absorbed within her own thoughts and concerns. She does, however, notice as he stops, turning round ot face her. “Are you feeling alright?” She nods, pulling away as he goes to touch her. He retracts upon seeing her unwillingness. Yes, he does lust after her… But he is no rapist. That is the lowest of the low for he knows that nothing shall ever permit rape. There is no justification between the atrocity. He admits that he has committed sins. He has struck Quasimodo many occasion but it was to teach him. Physical discipline is not the least bit foreign within the catholic church. Anything blasphemous to God deserves punishment and reprimandment. And a part of him truly feels sorry of the lad but in his heart, he truly believes that he is helping him reach salvation. A part of him does, indeed, love him.

“Do you fear me?” he now realizes. “What a foolish question. Of course you are fearful. You have stated that you believe the attempted murder appeared like me.”

She falters, beginning to question if she has, in fact, heard him correctly. “Repeat what you just said…” she starts slowly. He watches her with confusion. “You do believe me when I said about the man, that I was not the one who tried to kill him… Why did you say otherwise then?”

“I have neither affirmation nor denotation to your actions, my child.”

“During the torture session.”

“You admitted to loving him. Nothing that of prostitution.”

She stands fully now, watching him warily. “You twisted my words.”

“I did not, no.”

“But you did!”

All he does in return is chuckle, as if absolutely appalled upon such a ludicrous thought. “Child…”

“Are you in disbelief upon your words?” she demands, her dark eyebrows furrowing at the audacity that displays in front of her. “Why do you pretend that it is nonsense? Do you dare accuse me of lying ot you of that I have heard with my very own ears? Or shall I go and inquire the very man who has almost broken my foot?”

“You are to do nothing of the sort,” he states calmly, his hands hidden alongside his face. “If you are to go back into those dungeons, the next time you shall see the outside world is upon the dawn of your hanging. I do hope that you are well aware of this. And since you had agreed, I find no need to allow you endangering your life unnecessarily.” He rests a gentle hand upon her shoulder to which she immediately recedes, her dark eyes twinkling with anger.

It is that anger, that defiance that he does not see that allows him to grow excited. Excommunication of the church silences the citizens and the royals. Death and persecution silences the lawless, the gypsies, thieves and others. To a certain extent, people will fight but all have their limits that are eventually reach, quite easily so, as Frollo has found. But this girl, this child exceeds his expectations more so than he has ever perceived. And she continues to do so. And if he is not careful, she might end up dead due to that fact. Easily admirable, yes, but he has no want of her leaving in any way, shape or form any time in the near or distant future.

“Come,” he speaks. “Let us go and discuss this when we get to the cathedral. We must not bring any unnecessary attention unto ourselves. Please. You shall get all the answers that you wish for. That, I swear to you and that, I shall not take lightly. I am a true man of my word.”

“So you say,” she speaks, her voice low as she eyes him up and down, rather annoyed due to how exposed he is compared to how exposed she feels.

“Is something the matter?” he asks as they begin to walk again. She remains quiet, her mind wandering as they eventually exit the Palace of Greve. Upon exiting, the two torches left alone blazing pulls her attention. They illuminate the wooden stand, the casting shadow of the noose the single most thing that sends the deepest shivers throughout her. She falters, as though paralyzed. The priest halts, noticing the lack of presence behind him. “You do not need to fret. You shall not appear upon that stand.”

“It is not that I fear, but for those who are not as fortunate as me and shall die.”

“Those who do are deserving of it.”

“And if they are not?! What of my countless brothers and sisters whom I have seen be killed and slaughtered unjustly in front of me?! I have witness death the moment I have laid a foot in France! When I was a child, I watched the king’s men decapitate a woman in front of me as my brother hid me in the alleyway to ensure that I would not be the next to die! Because she stole bread! Because she was a gypsy, a bohemian! They threw her body over their shoulder and carried her off… like… like a worthless sack! Are you aware of what they do with the bodies? The bodies of women are fucked! And disposed like the carcass of an animal!” Before she was aware of how much her emotions were overcoming her, tears were streaking down her cheeks, leaving trails through the dirt that covers her face.

All Claude could do is watch her as she breaks, the beautiful, bold dancer that he acknowledges her as is reduced to nothing but a hurt soul that suffers for her people. He kneels down in front of her, watching as she sobs. He is unsure of what to do. And whilst he has some form of experience after raising Quasimodo, he still was not one to deal with any form of feelings. They were never his expertise and he wishes now that he has some form of capability of at least soothing the girl. But he does not and he is left clueless.

He is hesitant to reach out and hold her. She had pulled away before and he is unsure if she shall do it again. “Child…” he eventually speaks.

“I am not a child.”

“In comparison to me, indeed you are,” he returns gently.

“Age has _nothing_ to do with number,” she quips. “It is experience, maturity….”

“That still makes you a child. Just because I remain behind the walls of cathedrals does not mean that I have experienced little. I have seen and heard much. I have met many people during my lifetime. Old, young, rich and poor alike. The guilty and the quiet. I have heard many stories, seen death and destruction, yet also I have witnessed miracles and the seemingly impossible become reality. I have not been exempted from the trials, demands, and hardships of life. Being a religious man has caused that to worsen that much more. I am unsure if you understand or not. I have had interactions with many people, had to undertake many points of views, had to see the good in those who perhaps might not have it. There is much I say but I fear that I am incapable of getting my point across and giving it the justice that it deserves.”

“No,” she eventually sighs, tiredly rubbing her face, her tears ceasing. “I suppose that I have not thought of it that way. I am sorry to assume.”

“Do not be. I understand, your place differs greatly than mine. I do not wish to be seen as a villain neither. I am truly, terribly sorry for letting you feel that I am.”

“I have not seen you _personally_ as the villain, but the church as a whole. I believe that they see everyone that is not a convent as someone worthy of death.”

“No, my dear. That is not our purpose at all. We wish to inform and guide people to salvation. We heal those incapable of healing themselves and we help those who cannot do it. Please. Heed these words for what I say is true. Those who abuse the powers of the catholic church are the greatest sinners of all. And I hope that you believe what I say.”

“Do you agree…? With the king abusing the church for the wealth?”

“No,” he sighs. “Nor do I agree with how much money the church has. If it were me, I would be distributing it to the poor and sick. But I have little control upon that matter.”

It is silent for several moments as all the gypsy can do is stare at the noose. “… What frightens you?” she inquires, her voice airy, giving the indication that she is not truly there.

“What do you mean?”

“Your robe covers you fully. Each and every time I see you, you stand there with your hands tucked in your sleeves, your hood casting a shadow over your face. It is as though you do not wish for people to see what you look like so you lurk in the shadows. What are you afraid of?”

“I-,” he takes a moment, hesitating, unsure how to truly respond. He had been asked as to why he wears what he does. He responds that it is simple etiquette, that all religious figures must wear it. But to be asked what he is frightened of… He never thinks of such things. He does not allow himself to simply because he does not want to face it. “…I am unsure,” he resigns with the answer, hoping that it is sufficient enough to quell her curiousity.

“Because you hide away from your problems. You have the privilege to. You can retreat whenever and wherever and people will leave you be,” she whispers, her voice rather bitter as she wraps her arms around herself. “That must be nice.”

“I am not allowed to. I have obligations, expectations to live up to.”

“But you have somewhere to retreat to if necessary. You do not understand what I am saying.”

“Nor you I.”

“Then what-?”

“What do you propose I say?” he demands now, looking at her, his voice still calm, however.

“The truth. The simple and just trust. Stop hiding behind the face and pull down that hood. All you do is pull away.”

“I have revealed much mor eto you than anyone else,” he answers, eyes narrowing. She lifts her hand up, taking off his hood, staring into his coal eyes. HE stops, staring in return, unsure of how to respond. He starts to pull away to which she stops him, a hand on his arm. “What is it that you want, Esmeralda?”

“… If I am to stay with you, I do not want someone who hides from me. We interact like humans… Because if I have to talk to myself to stay sane, I refuse to live such a life.”

He nods, taking his hood and pulling it back on. “In due time, then… In due time…”


End file.
